


Apparitions of not being lonely

by orphan_account



Category: Black Widow (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Discussion of Rape, Discussion of Red Room, Eating disorder kind of, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Natasha Romanov Feels, Natasha Romanov Needs a Hug, idk - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-01
Updated: 2016-06-01
Packaged: 2018-07-11 15:42:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7058728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Clint brings Natasha in, he is shipped off for a deep undercover mission, which leaves Natasha on her own at SHEILD with no one but Coulson on her side. When he comes back, Coulson asks him to keep an eye on her but was he too late?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Apparitions of not being lonely

**Author's Note:**

> idek?? Angsty Natasha is what i live for so if someone wants to write a better version of this that'd be nice lmao. Also there was italics in here for their thoughts but?? They are gone and idk how to do this so i'm sorry if its more confusing that way.  
> thank you for reading :)

Clint had barely managed to paw at his alarm clock before falling unceremoniously off his bed and on to his crumpled jeans from the night before. He had spent 6 months abroad on a deep cover mission posing as a terrorist as punishment for bringing home a 'Motherfucking Stray Russian Assassin' as Fury had so eloquently described The Black Widow, and as soon as his jet landed on the helicarrier, he had bee-lined straight for his on-board room, wrestled with his damn uncomfortable jeans and all but collapsed onto his unmade bed. Coulson would be pissed; he hadn't even debriefed before falling unconscious for nearly 12 hours.

A few muffled curses later and a brief struggle to slip his jeans back on, Clint ventured out to his kitchen and blearily started the coffee machine that Coulson had bought as a joke last Christmas but had quickly become Clint's savior as he no longer had to go to the main mess hall to get his daily dose(s) of caffeine. When the coffee was done, he grabbed the pot and drank straight from it, used to the heat of it by now, and made his way to his duffle that he dropped by the door when he got home a day earlier. Rifling through his dirty clothes until he found his prize, he secured the paperwork under his left arm and put the now empty coffee pot on the counter before making his way out of his room into the dimly lit corridor of the helicarrier.

When Clint arrived at Coulson's office, after some halfhearted waves to his colleagues, he barged in with his usual finesse, threw his paperwork on the floor and flopped onto his overstuffed couch, his praises for the piece of furniture muffled by the fabric. He was still angry at being forced into such a long mission- he was a sniper for fucks sake, not an actor- but he was always glad to be back on his Coulson's bright orange sofa.

"I'll be on my way then, Sir." A distinctly feminine, albeit flat, voice droned on somewhere in the office which made Clint's ears perk up and his face lift from the cushions.

A sigh and then , "Natasha," was Coulson's reluctant reply. He sounded tired, Clint noticed, and hesitant, both uncommon in the usually calm, collected man before him. 

"Just think about what I said, okay?" Coulson sounded dejected, like he knew the requested would be ignored by he red head. Wait. Red head? Clint's brain finally caught up with the situation and he suddenly felt anger burn beneath his skin at the sight of The Black Widow. She was the reason that he was away for so long, she must have manipulated him into offering her a job, must have done something because he was the person he blamed although he wasn't 100% sure why. Damn her. Damn her and her flaming hair and ocean-like eyes. God and damn those curves that go on and on and- fuck, he's a man OK? Just because she is his self proclaimed enemy doesn't mean he cant appreciate her body. Actually, when he takes a closer look at her, he notices that she must have lost some weight because he remembers her curves being more, well, curvier. God he sounded like such an idiot; anger and lust does not bode well apparently. 

His anger seems to take over any lust he may feel as she walks past him to the door; he already freaks out the trainees with his Resting Bitch Face but when he wants to, he looks damn right terrifying and right now he is leveling that glare at her guarded face. When she actually looks at him with recognition, her eyes light up and she looks almost happy, until she sees the expression on his face and her eyes return to their flat stare that she directs at the floor. Clint looks on with a sick sense of satisfaction at her retreating form until a throat clearing reminds him that he is not alone and his actions were not unnoticed by his handler.

"Was that really necessary, Clint? She's having a hard tim-" Whatever Coulson was about to say was cut off by an unamused laugh from his agent.

"Hard time? Sir, she is a spy, the best damn spy in the world according to Fury, I think she can handle SHIELD. Hell, she's not even locked up. I mean did she get punished and sent to fuck-knows-where to be a fucking terrorist? That was rhetorical but the answer is no. She did not. She's probably being treated like royalt-"

"Barton." Coulsons voice cuts off Clint's rant and however much he wants to continue, he does actually respect Coulson.

"I know you might feel like she is responsible for your punishment," He silences Clint's protests with a look, "but we have a lot more information on the Red Room than we did before. She didn't have a choice in becoming what she is." The words 'emotionless monster' come to the forefront of Clint's mind, "Her childhood makes yours look good, Clint. She was brainwashed, beaten, raped, experimented on. The list goes on." Coulson gives a heavy sigh and Clint leans forward, interest piqued. "We've been de-programming her but it's taking it's toll on her. I want you to look out for her, OK? I don't care if you hold a grudge but no one will go near her and I think it's bothering her more than she lets on. Please, Clint."

Clint really hates Coulson right now because the last thing he wants is to trail around after this girl and check that she's not sad. But Clint can count on one hand the amount of times that Coulson has actually begged him for help and damn if he's going to let him down now.  
Decision made, he squares his jaw, takes a deep breath and says, "So her name is Natasha, right?"  
-  
Clint had thought the easiest way to track Natash- Romanoff would be to sit down in the mess hall and wait for her to arrive. Simple plan. Except she doesn't show. He waits for 3 hours, watches the other agents sit together and eat breakfast, watches the cleaning staff traipse around after them, and not once does she show her face. Maybe she came earlier? It wouldn't be too surprising for someone to be out around the carrier before 5:30, especially as people have to come and go for missions at anytime, but Coulson told him that she is secluded to the helicarrier until she has passed her psych evals. So she has to be somewhere on board and Clint readies himself for a long walk.  
-  
Natasha takes a deep breath as she pulls her fist back again, having been at the punching bag for at least 2 hours. She can feel her knuckles swell and her bruised skin break and she can't bring herself to care. After yesterday in Agent Coulson's office she had been feeling drained, even more so than usual. Coulson is the only person on the helicarrier that has shown the slightest bit of kindness to her and she resents him for it; hates that he cares because she's never had someone care about her and she doesn't know what to do with the unknown feelings bubbling up in her chest. 

She had been feeling anticipation for Barton's return ever since he was shipped off for his mission and when Coulson had dragged her down to his office to have another talk, he had let it slip that Barton was back. She vaguely remembers feeling happy, excited even, at the thought of him being on base. He saved her from her old life and she owed him everything. She liked finally having a purpose; ever since she was brought back to the carrier she hadn't had a purpose, something to work for, and then Barton came back and she suddenly had something to do. A mission. Until he saw her in Coulson's office and couldn't even hide his contempt at her. His disgust. God, how had she fucked it up already?

She punched the bag harder and smiled at the burning of her hand and the feeling of her stomach tightening around nothing.  
\-   
Clint watched her work in the training room and hated to admit that he was impressed. She moved with an enviable grace and was faster than he originally thought; she had moved on from what looked like a long work out with a punching bag if the hair sticking to her face and neck was to go by, and she was now practicing some weird gymnastic routine that he now wants to try out. He thought it was weird that she hadn't taken her hand wraps off from the bag but then he doesn't know her, doesn't know how she works so he left it be. She had just finished a series of moves when she caught his eyes in the bright light of the training room. He tried to look friendly but it's hard to look nonthreatening with his face so he tried giving a small wave. Romanoff looked confused for a second then seemed to realize who he was and she straightened, muttered a quiet apology and all but ran out of the room. As she left she started to remove her hand wraps and he noticed the startling amount of blood on them and how she swayed in the doorway. Shit. OK, maybe Coulson was right. 

He was heading towards the door to chase after her when it caught his attention that all of the other agents were as far away from her as possible while still completing their own workout, and now that she had left, they all seemed to breathe a collective sigh of relief and swarmed to fill the places she had left. Pussies.  
-  
Natasha was moving towards her room when she sensed someone following her and she knew it had to be Barton. No one else would bother. She gave an almost inaudible sigh when she realized that he had to be coming to collect his debt; she thought she would have a few more days of her strict 'just water' diet before he came for her. But she owed him. She knew she could make him feel good, make him feel amazing, but Ivan always said that men prefer their women small and skinny and she was too curvy and he used to punish her for it and make her- Natasha mentally shook herself, reminded herself to breathe because she was sure Coulson was getting sick of her panic attacks. Breathe. Barton would catch up to her soon and she had to be good for him. Couldn't be such a mess. Just turn left into your room and he will follow, you'll have time to wash your hands. It's fine. You're fine.  
She listened to the voice in her head and opened he door to her room, leaving it open a crack. An invitation. On silent feet, she went too her bathroom and put her bleeding hands under the cold water, splashed some sterilizing alcohol on them, then put them back under. The sharp sting made black dots appear behind her eyes but it kept her in the present. She shut the water off and went to greet Barton who had just stepped into her room.

"Shut the door, Agent." She purred out, pursing her lips and lowering her voice the way she was taught to do.  
Barton seemed confused but complied to her request. She backed him against the door and looked up under her eyelashes at him. 

"Uhh, Romanoff?"

She didn't like the way he was still acting confused so she grabbed his ratty t-shirt, hauled him against her so he could feel her breasts, and pressed her mouth to his. He froze up when their lips connected but that didn't matter,no man would resist her, no man had resisted her, even when it was her who said no. After a few seconds, he reacted to the kiss and grabbed her waist, tongue sweeping over hers and a slight moan broke out of the back of his throat. When they broke apart to breathe, she pulled his t-shirt up over his head, not minding the way the action caused her knuckles to start beading with drops of blood. When she reached for the zipper of his jeans, he appeared to snap out of his thoughts as he grabbed her hands to stop her.

"What the fuck?" He spat.

He was squeezing her hands too hard and her eyes were stinging but she carried on, knowing what he wanted.

"Oh come on, Barton, I know you want me." She whispered, pulling a hand free and rubbing the growing bulge in his jeans. Why was he acting like this?

"Yeah, no, I don't actually know you."

She dropped to her knees in front of him while unzipping his jeans and pulled both his jeans and boxers down to his ankles in one smooth motion. He was frozen once again so she went to work on his cock while looking up at him, keeping eye contact like Ivan told her to. You have to look into their eyes Natalia, let them see you. He was finally starting to relax when she licked the head of his cock and whispered, "Don't worry Barton, I know how to repay my debts," then swallowed him whole.  
-  
He sputtered and pulled her hair back, effectively stopping her rhythm and yanking her head off his cock.

"You think you have to do this to repay me? Do you know how fucked up that is? Not every guy wants to fuck you, do you know that? Christ." He pulled up his boxers and jeans, then looked at her face, at the hurt and confusion in her eyes and felt like a prick. She genuinely doesn't know any better. Fuck.

"Hey, hey, it's Natasha right? Look, I know you didn't come from here, but you can't just fuck people for favors. That's like illegal. You don't owe me anything, OK?" 

"I owe you my life. I don't like owing people. I know you want this, so it solves both of our problems." She gave a pointed look to his still half hard dick in his jeans.

"No, Natasha, I don't want this." He tried to sound apologetic but once again she misinterpreted him and her eyes glistened, face turning down to the ground like that day in Coulson's office.

"Is it," She took a slightly shuddering breath, " I can be better. I'm sorry, I can- give me a few days and I'll be better for you and you'll want me and we can get this over with and I wont owe you anymore." She wasn't really crying, no tears fell, but God she sounded so broken and he didn't understand how badly she must have been treated for her to think that the only problem with this situation was that he didn't want her.

"Natasha, no. It's not that I don't want you, it's that I don't want you to think that you have to have sex with me. Do you understand? You're beautiful, really, but you can't keep fucking guys because you think it's expected of you, OK?"

She gave a slight nod and reached up to wipe her eyes and he caught sight of her bleeding knuckles; felt the blood drying on his palms and felt sick. I hurt her. I hurt her and she's the one apologizing to me. He slowly reached out to gingerly hold one of her hands and he noticed the way she flinched, but let him hold her hand and his heart broke for her; how many times was she expected to let people touch her when she was afraid of them? 

He motioned for her to stand up and when she swayed on her feet, he gripped her waist to steady her and felt her ribs clearly through the hoodie she wore. He sighed out a curse and realized that he hadn't seen her in the mess hall because she doesn't go there. He doesn't know how no one had noticed how thin she is, or how much she trains, but then again maybe that was why Coulson was so concerned for her. He hates himself for hating her when he was undercover because it was his fault that she was here, that she had no one but her boss to talk to and from what he knew of the Red Room, telling your boss about a weakness could mean death. 

He silently guided her to her bathroom and noticed the blood already in the sink and the open bottle of sterilizing alcohol on the vanity and connected the dots in his head. She knew you were coming. She tried to hide it from you so she could let you fuck her. He felt sick again and distracted himself by gently cleaning up her hands and bandaging them, not letting his touch linger. When he was done he walked with her back to her bedroom and felt her pull on his sleeve like a child. She practically is a child Barton.  
"Thank you," she began uncertainly, "for bandaging my hands." 

He knew she meant more than just helping her, but didn't let it show. "You're welcome." He smiled, "You know, we never actually introduced ourselves, and I was hoping we could be friends, so," He held out a large calloused hand, "I'm Clint." 

She reached out, "Hi Clint, I'm Natasha."


End file.
